


And I didn't kill the love of my life.

by CorneliaGrey



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Dark Will Graham, Desperate Will Graham, M/M, Nightmares, Out of his mind Will Graham, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:16:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26647375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorneliaGrey/pseuds/CorneliaGrey
Summary: 'My name is Will Graham', he clenches his teeth as he forces the thought out, clings to the words the way he always does when the nightmares come, the way Hannibal taught him to do. 'And I fell asleep on the couch in my living room, and I didn’t kill the love of my life.'And the thought is nowhere near good enough, and Will’s scrambling to his bare feet before his mind can catch up with him, stumbling past the door and up the stairs.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 15
Kudos: 168
Collections: Bottom Hanni  Bonanza, We Love Top!Will





	And I didn't kill the love of my life.

The black water swallows him whole.

It’s cold, and it’s dark, and it’s in his mouth and his nose and Will can’t—he can’t breathe, he can’t think past the voice screaming in his head that _he_ is not here, he’s gone and Will has to find him, he needs to—

_Hannibal._

Will kicks—his legs are trapped, his arms tangled in wet clothes and seaweed and tendrils of darkness that are pulling him under, dragging him down. His eyes burn, and he jerks his head in the water, looking for him. He’s here. He’s got to be here, because Will dragged him off the cliff and he can’t see, he can’t _breathe_ with the panic of it—it’s all black, the water’s so black but he twists and he kicks and heads down, hands reaching out. The whole damn ocean stretches around him but he’s sure, so absurdly _sure_ he will find him, he’ll be drawn to him and find him because how can he _not._

A smear of impossible red sets the dark water alight and he’s there, Hannibal’s down there and he’s sinking—arms limp and spread open, hair floating in a ghostly halo around his slack face. Eyes open, staring unseeing straight ahead as he slowly goes down, _down_.

Will fights and strains and kicks his too-heavy legs, lungs burning in his chest. He can reach him, he _has to_ , but he’s not moving—he’s not _moving_ , not an inch as Hannibal falls away from him, disappears into the deep, bottomless sea, swallowed by merciless darkness. Away from Will’s outstretched hands—dead eyes turning to him as that bruised mouth moves, words lost to the waves.

 _You did this._ The water’s dull roar fills Will’s ears, its chill sinks into his bones. He’s too heavy to move, too weak to reach him—all he can do is watch as Hannibal is lost to the ocean, lips moving like a ghost’s in the deep. _You killed me, Will._

Not reproachful, not angry—the words are soft, and sad, and Will’s chest is tearing apart and he wants to call out, to beg him, _Don_ _’t go_ _—I didn’t mean it, Hannibal, please_ _._ It’s too dark and too cold and Will is alone, so desperately alone because Hannibal’s gone, he is _gone_.

_I didn_ _’t want this, I didn’t_ _— please, don’t leave me. Don’t leave me…_

—

Will gasps awake, choking on water that’s not there, throat aching and chest tight and he can’t move, arms and legs trapped. He fights, swallowing panicked breaths, and it’s not the ocean tangled around him, it’s a thick blanket wrapped around his body, it’s clothes plastered to his skin by cold sweat. 

He rolls from the couch, knees hitting the carpet as he keels over, braced on his forearms. His stomach is clenched, bitter taste of bile rising in his throat and he’s still cold, still shivering, the dregs of the dream clinging to him like that dark water, licking at his brain, pooling in his lungs. He can’t breathe, eyes screwed shut as he hangs his head, hands pulling at his hair. It’s not real. It’s not _real_ —he found Hannibal under the waves, and held onto him and pulled him to the surface, dragged him to the beach out of sheer desperation and made him breathe again. 

“Too stubborn to let me die,” Hannibal gently teased him days later, barely strong enough to lift his hand and brush his knuckles to his cheek, and Will wanted to smile at him but cried instead, clutching Hannibal’s hand to his mouth, pressing kisses to his knuckles. Hannibal lived, and Hannibal stayed. He put the blanket on Will when he fell asleep on the couch and must be asleep in their bed upstairs, and Will didn’t kill him. Didn’t kill him. 

He forces his eyes open, drags a shaking hand over his face, sucking in convulsing breaths, heart hammering wild in his chest. _My name is Will Graham_ , he clenches his teeth as he forces the thought out, clings to the words the way he always does when the nightmares come, the way Hannibal taught him to do. _And I fell asleep on the couch in my living room, and I didn_ _’t kill the love of my life._

And the thought is nowhere near good enough, and Will’s scrambling to his bare feet before his mind can catch up with him, stumbling past the door and up the stairs.

—

When he blinks awake it’s to a harsh, cold light, blinding and searing and cutting his eyes like a knife. It’s to a white room and a white ceiling and a plexiglas wall and restraints twisting his arms, trapping his legs, and the press of plastic over his mouth. He fights to breathe through the muzzle, the panic like a punch to the stomach as he thrashes. _They_ loom over him, white lab coats and sharp teeth and blood-red eyes, wolves circling around their prey.

 _He_ _’s long dead_ , they are laughing at him, and Will wants to scream but he can’t speak, he can’t breathe. _You killed him, Will Graham._ _The ocean took him, and your sanity with him._ _Remember?_

He does, then, he remembers—how they dragged him out of the ocean alone, and smiled and smiled as Will crumpled on the beach because Hannibal was gone, lost to his wounds and the sea and Will’s folly. The pain of it should kill him and he fights the restraints, and his eyes hurt from the cold light and the tears and he’s howling—they should have let him die, they should have let him _die._

The doctors click their tongue and close over him, needles gleaming sharp in their hands, and Will wants it, he _wants_ it. Yes, they will put him back under and at least he will forget for a time, he’ll be back to his drugged stupor and his dreams, where Hannibal is safe—safe, and alive, and warm in his arms.

—

Will’s chest is heaving, hand clenched on the door.

Hannibal sleeps, the lines of his strong body marked by the light falling in from the hall, pale hair ruffled on the dark pillowcase. The expanse of his back, the scar tissue Will so hates a stark contrast to his tanned skin, strong arm folded on the pillow. Will’s gaze follows the curve of his spine, down to the dip of his back, the narrow hips where the blanked clings low, over the plump swell of muscles below. His face is peaceful—too-long hair falling over his forehead, lips sweetly parted, and he’s beautiful, he’s so damn _beautiful_ Will’s heart aches in his chest.

He watches and listens, and his knees nearly sag when he catches the regular rise and fall of his body, the soft sound of his breathing. Hannibal’s _breathing_. He’s alive, and he’s safe, and was not lost to him in the ocean, and seeing it is still not enough. It rises violently to his head—the need to touch him, to feel him, and Will clings to the door because it’s not wise to lunge at a sleeping predator. The strangled noise in his throat is too loud in the silence, for Hannibal stirs, muscles shifting as he arches like a sated beast, and his eyes flutter open, soft with sleep, finding Will’s in the space of a heartbeat.

Will holds his gaze, breathing too fast and shallow, eyes burning with the quiet desperation that’s constricting his chest. He wants to apologize, he wants to beg but he can’t breathe, he still can’t _breathe_ , but Hannibal knows. He always knows, so he shifts, lifts his arm in a quiet invitation.

“C’mere,” he rumbles, and Will goes.

He crashes into Hannibal like the tide, clings to his warm body, face buried in the crook of his neck. He holds onto him as something cracks inside his chest and Will breathes, lungs filling with the scent of him, hand sinking in the hair at his nape, clutching it fiercely. Hannibal’s arms fold around his back to haul him close, quiet and strong as the shore as the wave of Will’s desperation sweeps over him with all the violence of a stormfront.

Will rears up, finds Hannibal’s mouth in a kiss that’s frantic and consuming, and Hannibal opens up for him—he kisses back with no hesitation, lets himself be devoured as he embraces Will’s shaking body. The blanket falls to reveal his naked body, and Will’s groan is torn from his throat. He needs him, he _needs_ him, hips rolling against Hannibal’s thigh as he gasps into Hannibal’s mouth. He’s so hard it hurts, and it’s not enough. It’s not _enough._

“I need—” he grits out, and he can’t breathe, he can’t _breathe_ _—_ he needs to taste him, he needs to bury himself inside him and take him and _claim_ him until he can believe he’s real. Hannibal’s hand cups his cheek, thumb brushing his lips as he looks up at him—as he slowly, oh so slowly opens his thighs, and Will sinks between his legs with a ragged moan.

“Take it,” Hannibal’s voice is a thick whisper. “Whatever you need—take it, Will.”

—

The blade sinks deep into yielding flesh, the blood hot as it spurts on his hand. He pushes and twists and _holds_ as the body beneath him gives way, until it sags to the floor. The quiet exhilaration of it floods his veins, the harsh thumping of his heart pumps it through his body to fill his head with raging, howling victory. Will rears up, kneeling astride his prey, head tilted back as he snarls to the ceiling. Power swells inside his chest, glorious and near damn blasphemous with how _good_ it feels.

He breathes deep, the air soaked in metallic scent. The room stinks of blood—he inhales it, fills his lungs with it, drinks his fill of it—he’s covered in it, his clothes soaked with dark stains, his face smeared with red. It’s still warm, dripping thick and sluggish from his hands.

It’s an unhinged, crazed smile that his mouth twists into, teeth bared at the dark joy that blooms inside his chest like a poisonous flower. He’s thrumming with it, triumphant and powerful and so, so damn _alive_ his ribcage might crack open. It’s drunken elation as he breathes deep once more, an animal scenting his kill, the sickly-sweet smell of blood heavy on his tongue.

He straightens his spine, lowers his gaze on his fallen prey—on silvery hair matted with blood, on sharp, high cheekbones bruised and bloody, on a fine nose crooked and broken by savage blows. His hand’s still holding the knife and under the dripping blood his knuckles are split, sore with the echo of every merciless punch, every blow he dealt, the crunching of delicate bones under his fist. In his ears is the echo of weak groans of pain, of a skull cracking against the floor over and over again with a sickening noise. He remembers, he remembers it all and it fills him with wild, rabid glee—

_No._

He’s screaming deep inside his brain, but he’s got no control as he watches his own hand drop the knife and fist into the stained pale hair, yanking Hannibal’s head back with ruthless violence, exposing his throat. Has no control over the gleeful anticipation he feels—it fills him with horror, vicious, heart-stopping horror, but he can’t stop the cruel smirk twisting his lips at how right this feels. Hannibal got what he deserved, and Will did it, he showed him, made him _pay_ for it all…

_No, please. I didn_ _’t want this. I didn’t mean_ _—_

He can’t stop himself as he abruptly lunges to sink his teeth in that vulnerable throat, feels the flesh give as he clenches his jaw and his mouth fills with blood. He jerks back, flesh ripping apart as he rears up, tearing Hannibal’s throat out, victorious. Victorious...

—

A ragged groan is torn from Will’s chest as he tenses, pushes, forces himself inside.

Hannibal’s body opens for him, and he’s too tight and too dry still and so goddamn hot. His flesh parts for him as Will pushes his length inside, and he should stop, he should slow down but he can’t, he _can_ _’t_. His shirt’s gone, his trousers yanked open just enough to get his achingly hard cock out and take him, fuck him, _own_ him.

He’s between Hannibal’s legs and he’s rolling his hips, choking on the feel of Hannibal’s tight body clenching around him—Hannibal’s hands at the small of his back, the back of his thigh, drawing him in, deeper, _harder_. His hips are flush against Hannibal’s ass as he thrusts, as he grabs Hannibal’s hips hard enough to bruise and yanks him back, shuddering as he rams into him over and over and _over_ , mindless with need.

He rakes his hand through the long silver strands of Hannibal’s hair, clenches his fist, holding on tight as he laps at his mouth, bites at his lips, kisses him, kisses him.

And Hannibal, oh, _Hannibal_ is magnificent,arching under him, hips rolling like relentless waves as he takes Will inside to the hilt, shameless in his pleasure. He’s so open and pliant for him, so _sensual_ , strong muscles rippling under his hands, gasping praises dripping from his lips as he abandons himself to their pleasure.

Will loves him like this, loves him so much his chest might shatter with it. His iron control’s cast aside when they come together and Hannibal’s shaking for him, moaning loud and shameless, sweet ragged sounds punched from him at every flex of Will’s hips, every punishing thrust fucking him open. Will braces on one hand, the other digging in Hannibal’s thigh, pushing him open for his cock. Hannibal’s flushed and panting, bitten-red lips and a sheen of sweat on his throat, fair lashes lowered as he shivers, and that is not _enough_.

He yanks Hannibal’s head back, tearing a moan out of him. “Look at me,” he growls, he orders, he _begs_ , teeth bared in a snarl, and Hannibal does. They lock eyes and Hannibal’s gaze is hazy with pleasure—he’s so open for him, taking every violent thrust, fever-hot and panting and Will needs, he _needs_ _—_

“Come for me, darlin’,” he gasps, ramming deep inside him once, twice more before Hannibal arches under him, body spasming around his hard cock as he chokes out Will’s name. He pulls Will in to the hilt, muscles clenching as he takes his pleasure, moans dripping from his lips and he’s gorgeous, he’s _gorgeous_ and Will knows—in that moment he _knows_ this is real, that _Hannibal_ _’s_ real, because there’s no way he could ever imagine something so utterly _beautiful._

His orgasm hits like he’s crashing into the ocean all over again and Will shudders, buries his groan against Hannibal’s mouth—he drowns himself in the feel of him, the taste of him, the scent of him, a wrecked sob caught in his throat.

—

Will’s trembling all over. He looks at him—Hannibal’s flushed face, his eyes heavy with the pleasure Will gave him and it’s still not enough to calm the pounding of Will’s heart, the panic that’s coiled around his lungs, that’s crushing his heart. He burrows against Hannibal’s chest, holding him so hard it must hurt, and he can’t close his eyes. He’s scared, he’s so fucking _scared_ all the time he feels crazy with it and he’s afraid to blink, he’s afraid to so much as breathe, choking on the bone-deep terror that Hannibal will vanish like smoke from his arms, dissolve in dark, icy water and he’ll wake up alone, arms achingly empty.

Panic seizes him at the thought and he flinches hard, burying his nose in Hannibal’s hair, breathing him in. Hannibal doesn’t ask, doesn’t speak—he just holds him and _holds_ him and slowly strokes his back, firm, grounding pressure as Will clings to him like a man lost at sea.

“Sometimes,” he chokes out, voice cracked in the dark, “I’m afraid you’re not real. And I don’t know—I can’t—” Will swallows, throat aching. It’s a whispered confession, a prayer, the truest thing he’s ever known. “I can’t lose you.”

“I’m here, Will,” Hannibal murmurs, lips at the corner of Will’s mouth, hands soothing at his nape, his back. “I’m real. And I’m right here, with you.”

A whine is torn from Will’s throat as Hannibal’s hand tightens in his hair, pulls him in to the hollow of his neck. And Will goes, mouth pressed to his skin, tasting him, holding onto him as Hannibal hums, a deep rumble in his chest, pulls him impossibly close and touches every inch of his skin he can reach, enfolds him, so solid and real and _alive_.

 _My name is Will Graham._

Hannibal’s heartbeat is strong and steady in his chest and Will trembles, eyes finally closing, and lets himself _believe_ , holding desperately on.

_And I didn_ _’t kill the love of my life._


End file.
